The Clocks - Agatha Christie [92]
“But of course I know it!”
Hardcastle stared at him incredulously.
“Are you saying you know who killed the man at 19, Wilbraham Crescent?”
“Certainly.”
“And also who killed Edna Brent?”
“Of course.”
“You know the identity of the dead man?”
“I know who he must be.”
Hardcastle had a very doubtful expression on his face. Mindful of the chief constable, he remained polite. But there was scepticism in his voice.
“Excuse me, M. Poirot, you claim that you know who killed three people. And why?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got an open and shut case?”
“That, no.”
“All you mean is that you have a hunch,” I said, unkindly.
“I will not quarrel with you over a word, mon cher Colin. All I say is, I know!”
Hardcastle sighed.
“But you see, M. Poirot, I have to have evidence.”
“Naturally, but with the resources you have at your disposal, it will be possible for you, I think, to get that evidence.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Come now, Inspector. If you know—really know—is not that the first step? Can you not, nearly always, go on from there?”
“Not always,” said Hardcastle with a sigh. “There are men walking about today who ought to be in gaol. They know it and we know it.”
“But that is a very small percentage, is it not—”
I interrupted.
“All right. All right. You know … Now let us know too!”
“I perceive you are still sceptical. But first let me say this: To be sure means that when the right solution is reached, everything falls into place. You perceive that in no other way could things have happened.”
“For the love of Mike,” I said, “get on with it! I grant you all the points you’ve made.”
Poirot arranged himself comfortably in his chair and motioned to the inspector to replenish his glass.
“One thing, mes amis, must be clearly understood. To solve any problem one must have the facts. For that one needs the dog, the dog who is a retriever, who brings the pieces one by one and lays them at—”
“At the feet of the master,” I said. “Admitted.”
“One cannot from one’s seat in a chair solve a case solely from reading about it in a newspaper. For one’s facts must be accurate, and newspapers are seldom, if ever, accurate. They report something happened at four o’clock when it was a quarter past four, they say a man had a sister called Elizabeth when actually he had a sister-in-law called Alexandra. And so on. But in Colin here, I have a dog of remarkable ability—an ability, I may say, which has taken him far in his own career. He has always had a remarkable memory. He can repeat to you, even several days later, conversations that have taken place. He can repeat them accurately—that is, not transposing them, as nearly all of us do, to what the impression made on him was. To explain roughly—he would not say, ‘And at twenty past eleven the post came’ instead of describing what actually happened, namely a knock on the front door and someone coming into the room with letters in their hand. All this is very important. It means that he heard what I would have heard if I had been there and seen what I would have seen.”
“Only the poor dog hasn’t made the necessary deductions?”
“So, as far as can be, I have the facts—I am ‘in the picture.’ It is your wartime term, is it not? To ‘put one in the picture.’ The thing that struck me first of all, when Colin recounted the story to me, was its highly fantastic character. Four clocks, each roughly an hour ahead of the right time, and all introduced into the house without the knowledge of the owner, or so she said. For we must never, must we, believe what we are told, until such statements have been carefully checked?”
“Your mind works the way that mine does,” said Hardcastle approvingly.
“On the floor lies a dead man—a respectable-looking elderly man. Nobody knows who he is (or again so they say). In his pocket is a card bearing the name of Mr. R. H. Curry, 7, Denvers Street. Metropolis Insurance Company. But there is no Metropolis Insurance Company. There is no Denvers Street and there seems to be no such person as Mr. Curry. That is negative